Jack
by ForeverErica
Summary: Jack likes the way Kate says his name.


_**Hey! I know that a lot of you need an update to "Nobody Does It Alone" (trust me, I'm working on it!), but I thought that I should break stride a bit with a small one-shot, which is the Jack-accompaniment to my good friend Yas' recent one-shot, "Kate" (go read that one too if you haven't already. It's awesome!). Enjoy!**_

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**Jack **

He was never a fan of nicknames. He didn't like to give them and he didn't like to be subjected to them. He hated the way they masked any attempt to truly know a person, in exchange for removed playfulness and even sarcastic derision. Although, 'Doc' started to grow on him long after he showed how much he disliked it, she never used it when addressing him. She never broke from the first name of any of her fellow survivors that she ever learned, a name that starts to mean so much more once she gets to know the man behind it.

He realizes that he prefers it this way, especially from a woman who, on first impact, kept herself so fiercely guarded and protected from forming long-lasting attachments to people she never thought she should have. Each version from her soft, full lips initiates a rumbling earthquake at the very core of his soul.

There is the terrified, distressed version. The one he heard while they ran for their lives from the cockpit, through the wet, sluggish rain and sticky, viscous sludge of the jungle. He remembered how the heavy drops sunk through his clothes, the pace at which he ran so swift that he squinted against the frequent downpour in order to see the tip of his nose in front of him. He recalled how the ground felt mushy, slick under his boots, with each hurried step he had to find a new equilibrium. His intuition told him to dive into the bushes, to remain unseen and unheard until the frightening predator stalked in another direction. Then he heard it, his name shrieked at the very top of her lungs, echoing through the heavy expanse of trees, leaves and tangled vines. Despite the deafening crash of growling and whistling that surrounded him, he heard her so vividly, how she called to him with such horror and panic, her tone trembling with a need that only he could satisfy. But she came back for him, a virtual stranger, her relief written all over her face as he stumbled into view with a small smile, just as relieved to see her, to see that she too was okay.

There is also the worried, pleading version. When he moves past her like a speeding bullet, bound and determined to do what he has to do. They are both tired, sweaty and growing more frustrated, the beating heat of the sun against their backs makes the situation more pressing and dire. He stands stubbornly defiant; his eyes wide, his fingers fidgeting, staying in one place for very long when someone needs his help has the power to completely wreck him. Her call of his name in anxious pleas to slow down and rest before he kills himself, tugging and gripping the front of his T-shirt to get him to see that she isn't some apparition that he could walk through and ignore, has just as much control over him.

She worried more for him than anyone who really knew him like he thought he should know a person should. She says his name one final time on a wobbly breath, and his feet would finally adhere to the ground, unable to move, because he knows that she isn't trying to get in his way or stop him because she doesn't believe in what he's trying to do, she does it because she really cares and he feels it in the growl of her tone. He knows that he doesn't agree with stopping for a minute or two, but he also knows that she is just as desperate, adamant about helping and having his back. Her desire to protect their friends always matches his with its intensity, but the way she says his name in those moments, he senses that her desire to protect _him_ is far more important to her.

One of his favorites is the playful, rambunctious one, the one she uses when they are laying in bed, with Aaron sound asleep in his crib, the rest of the night theirs to enjoy. He would hold her, his body spooned around hers, his lips on her neck, tickling the softness of her skin. He is content with the simple feel of her against him, and then she would turn the tables on him, shifting in his arms to face him, her green eyes bright and mischievous, ready to show that incredibly uninhibited, free-spirited side that he fell in love with at first sight. It makes him so happy to see her so carefree and relaxed, smiling widely at him as he finds all of her most ticklish spots, his name bursting out of her, mingled with breathless laughter and high-pitched giggles, begging him to stop, but making no attempt to push his relentless hands away.

His ultimate is the one he found himself fantasizing about long before they were ever intimate, the intoxicating vision of her naked body atop his, the wave of her curls over one shoulder as she leans in to kiss him. Her nails rake over his chest as she chokes on the syllables, her mind so wrapped up in the exhilarating charge of how good he makes her feel when he is inside of her. Her only audible contribution amid the moans, gasps and yelps is his name, raspy and gruff the moment she reaches the pentacle, then smooth and admiring when she finally bottoms out, falling into the warm cocoon of his strong, open arms.

There is one version that he absolutely loathes, a version that destroys him. His own name, slashing him to shreds like a thousand knifes coming from every direction. With her eyes closed, blood cascading down her face from the gash embedded in the tangle of her curls, his name coming out in both relief and pain. He shakes her awake, greeting his caring face through her blurred vision makes her heart beat calmly. With her eyes open wide, her body quivering, the dime-sized hole in her shoulder, she moans his name in debilitating discomfort, tears welling in response to the bombastic edge of ache running down her left side and permeating elsewhere. Her fingers dig into his shoulder, desperate for contact and his name is the only thing she can summon from her memory. He does his best to calm her down, reaching for where it hurts, inspecting, careful not to make it hurt any further, promising her that she will be okay. She doesn't say much else, she just stares deeply, her brow knitted, but he reads her eyes, glued to his, and the message is clear: "I'm okay. As long as you're here with me."


End file.
